House of Rougeaux(51)
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For years Guillaume made an annual trip in late June to Québec City to purchase his hardware for the saddlery. Papa had done the same all his years in Montreal, as loyal in his business relationships as with family, and now Guillaume did business with the hardware man’s son. In years past it was a week-long journey by horse and wagon. Now, just a day on the train. He would stay one night at a guesthouse that was quiet and clean, and served simple but hearty meals. With his transactions complete by mid-morning the next day he returned home, arriving late, though at that time of year always before dark. It was a pleasant trip when the weather was fine, and he welcomed those rare hours of solitude.
Time had a way of speeding up or slowing down, it seemed, depending on circumstances. Soon after the taking of the photograph, the daguerreotype that hung on the bedroom wall, baby Dax took his first steps, and soon after that it was time once again for the journey to Québec City. Guillaume was unsettled at the thought of leaving just now, even for one night. Elizabeth, strong and healthy all her life, had still not fully recovered from Dax’s birth. She grew winded climbing stairs or hefting laundry or even straightening too quickly when lifting the baby from the floor. She waved off Guillaume’s concern. It was nothing she was worried about, and the older children helped her with everything. Albert would be home that week from the railroad anyhow, and with Josephine just next door….When she kissed him goodbye early the next morning he felt sufficiently reassured.
Guillaume arrived at the guesthouse later that evening, having walked the distance from the station. There were six rooms in the place, and by now he had stayed in each, every time a year older. Five guests besides himself were served supper by the proprietress, Madame LeBlanc. All were seated around the familiar long oak table: a young couple, two French Canadians and an Englishman from Toronto. The Englishman was in textiles, he said, also in the city on business. His name was Hathaway. His salt and pepper hair was cropped rather short. Guillaume noticed the black brows that hovered over his blue eyes. Guillaume’s left eye began to sting and he rubbed at it with a knuckle. He concentrated on his chops.
After supper the young couple and the proprietress retired early, leaving the four men to linger with tobacco and stories made more amusing by the company of strangers. After some time two more went off to bed, leaving Guillaume and the Englishman.
They got on very well, a mutual energy animated the conversation, despite the late hour. They got onto the subject of fruit trees as both men, it turned out, cultivated a few of their own in their back gardens. Hathaway knew of nothing better than a ripe freestone peach in summer, so full of juice one had to lean forward to eat it.
“No, Sir,” Guillaume argued. The best fruit of all was the Van cherry, in his opinion, and he went on to describe its texture and flavor, and the loveliness of the tree itself, which he pruned in his own yard late each winter with the utmost care. As he spoke his gaze was lost in the lace curtains that hung in the window, and when he turned back to his companion he realized the Englishman had fixed him with a stare, eyes cobalt under the coal-black brows.
Guillaume flushed with a violent heat. He reached for his teacup.
“It’s a pity there’s no billiard table,” Guillaume said, having choked down the last of the cold tea. In fact he was a great lover of the game, and often took his older sons, Albert and Ross, to play at a local tavern. Guillaume had an instinctive understanding of speed and spin and angle, and won so easily his sons preferred to play each other. In that case Guillaume would circle the table while the boys played, calculating the best shots and offering advice on the better way to grip the cue.
“Ha!” Hathaway laughed, “I’m glad there isn’t one. Abominable game.”
“Don’t you play?” Guillaume smiled at the Englishman’s irreverence.
“When forced,” Hathaway said. “But it’s not bad for business, I will say that. Given that I always lose. Makes the clients jolly and likely to buy more of my wares.”
“What do you prefer, then?”
The conversation rolled on, from games and sport, back to fruit trees and onward to rail travel. The clock struck midnight and still neither of them took their leave. Finally, after the clock struck one, Hathaway rose.
“I’m certain we’ll need our rest,” he said.
Guillaume nodded and stood also.
He followed Hathaway up the stairs. The Englishman opened the door to his room, opposite Guillaume’s.
“Would you care to come in,” Hathaway said quietly.
Guillaume stood petrified, wavering on the threshold.
“My wife,” he said at last.
Hathaway nodded, a wistful smile. “Of course,” he said. “Goodnight, then.”
Guillaume lay awake the whole rest of the night. Many times he thought of rising, approaching the other door, and softly knocking. He knew that if such a knock came to his door he would be powerless to resist. But no such knock came, and when the dawn greeted him he was exhausted, utterly torn between relief and regret.
The Englishman was not present when breakfast was served. The French Canadians asked after him and the proprietress said he’d had to leave at first light. Guillaume ate his eggs and porridge in silence, but suddenly Madame LeBlanc was at his side. She brought out a gilt-edged card from her apron pocket and held it out to him. A calling card.